


Stumbling, Perhaps Falling Slowly

by Sunflower_Kin



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Characters and relationships will be added as the story continues, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 13:37:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3852775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunflower_Kin/pseuds/Sunflower_Kin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a tiny town full of hopeless dreamers, a young group of fools are going to be involved in something that may very well ruin their lives. It all starts with a foul tempered artist demanding a new muse, and three aspiring musicians stumbling upon one of the worst crimes the country has seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stumbling, Perhaps Falling Slowly

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this story is intended to be horribly explicit and may trigger those who are upset by violence and rape. Do not dare read this if you are upset by these topics, because they will be vital to the plot, and are not skippable.

Rose had pledged herself to her music. After her mother died, it was all she had. Tiny little callouses and cuts from the strings breaking. Music sheets, scattered throughout the halls and taped over tacky wizard paintings. When the nights got too lonely, she would creep in on the alcohol cabinet her mother had once kept brimming. She would write drunk melodies, ones far too personal for the public, and had learned to not read them, to throw them away while she remained unattached. Rose Lalonde preferred to be unattached.

Kanaya had given up music after her mother had died. The grand piano in the ballroom remained untouched, the tutor they once paid rather well was sent away on his usual Wednesday morning. She dedicated her time to her studies, trying to advance her degree so she could get out, get recognized, get something. She couldn’t stand twiddling her thumbs, watching her sister grow up too fast. She couldn’t watch someone else’s freedom get pulled out from underneath them like that. The least she could do is sacrifice as well, so that Porrim wouldn’t suffer so much. Music was a worthy sacrifice.

Dave had submersed himself into music from the moment he could tap out a tune onto a keyboard. Arcade buttons, microwave doors, television remotes, nothing was spared from his hands. He could make a beat out of anything, he could play any tune, match any DJ, he was the best there was. He could feel it in every fiber of his being. And he knew that if he wasn’t the best, he sure as hell was going to be. Music was more than just a competition. It was a conquest to him.

Flyers were being passed out by the three of them, outside of bars, churches, grocery stores. Taped to lamp posts and tucked under windshield wipers. Hardly anyone glanced at them for more than a moment. Teenagers gazed longingly at the prize money before throwing it into their bags. Adults scoffed at its entire purpose and handed the flyers back. It was easy to count how many people had kept them with the intentions of following through with its message. Even fewer actually followed up and called the number on the little scraps. Karkat Vantas was looking for a new muse. Someone beautiful, someone hard and curved and strong but also beautiful. He needed a Greek statue, he needed grace and purpose and all of it had to be natural. Short, tall, fat, skinny, he didn’t care. He needed his light, his fire, his soul. In his oversized studio, people would stand, sit, dance, sing, whatever they need so long as it is beautiful. He had wrote it in bright red, a million times, on each flyer. Karkat Vantas would settle for nothing less than ethereal perfection. No rain nor snow could postpone such a momentous occasion.

On a dreary Sunday morning, humans from all walks of life had lined themselves up underneath umbrellas and blankets, outside of the studio door. At exactly eleven-o-five, the door swung open and muddy feet trudged in, dropping knapsacks and jackets and backpacks alike. In the center of the room was a tiny wooden stool surrounded by canvases and paint jars. Everyone awkwardly stood around, each person taking a few steps forward before stumbling back a little. Nobody quite understood what was expected of them. “One of you assholes,” a voice at the end of the room said, “Strip, and stand on the stool. I don’t care who goes first. Just hurry the fuck up.” A man peeked out from behind the canvas, short and angry and small. He had red beady eyes and a mop of black hair that he could barely see past. He was dark skinned and seemed to be permanently flushed, almost as if he was embarrassed. “Did I fucking stutter? Hurry the fuck up and get naked. Or fucking leave, I don’t care.” Everyone glanced around before they all stripped away their upper layers of clothing. Cardigans and leggings and tank tops were folded, each person lingering about in just their underwear.

The first person to step up was a thick bleach blonde, with skin darker than midnight. She stripped away her fuchsia panties and sat, facing the waiting artist. “Is this all you fish for?” she asked, smiling innocently. He glared for a moment before nodding. Karkat picked up a charcoal pencil and sketched for a moment before stopping. He dipped his fingers in a few jars of paint and began to flick it onto the canvas erratically. When it was clear he was finished, he gestured for her to come stand in front of the easel. “All of you, when I’m done, will write your full fucking name at the top. Don’t fuck this up. Follow it up with your number and I’ll call you when I need you.” After that, time moved forward rather quickly. Karkat drew people of all types – a girl that couldn’t sit still and ended up spending half of the sketch hanging upside down from the stool, a blind girl that modeled on the lap of her gangly boyfriend, both too drunk to do much else, a boy in a wheelchair that was damned determined to get his pants on and off and get himself onto the stool without a bit of help. When it was all over, thirteen canvases had been drawn on. Thirteen creatures had been sketched and colored and had turned into masterpieces, by his own definition.

He had met many beautiful people, and had loved them all. He pulled out his cellphone, something cheap and shitty and not worth more than pocket change, and labeled all of the numbers with their respective names. He knew he would be calling upon many of them soon. Karkat knew who would be his first.

She was thin and angry and he couldn't help but draw her as he saw her. Gangly and flaming and colored in harsh reds and angry yellows. Scales that covered her ankles and wound up her legs and met in between her thighs, spreading like wings over her hips and cupping her breasts. Her arms were raised over her head, holding masses of dark hair that curved around her hips when down and untouched. She was sneering, both as a model and as a creation, as if no one in the room was worth the polite acknowledgment. He peeked at her sketch to check for her name. _Damara_. That name was fitting. She was almost a dragon, a monster, a serpent. She was terrifying, both in life and art, demanding everyone’s attention in the cruelest way possible. Too upsetting to be sexy, she didn’t use her curves to attract anyone. She didn’t use them at all. It was almost as if they were blessings she did not need. She herself was a blessing, what more would she need?

So Karkat dared to dial her number. He called her and waited for the ringing to stop. It rang and rang and rang. It didn’t stop. And when it did, a recording played in a language he didn’t recognize, and he didn’t bother leaving a message. Somewhere across town, maroon lips were wrapped around the pipe of a hookah, taking a deep breath and exhaling around the gold metal. Damara was draped across a booth of older men, each one fascinated by the Mongolian’s curves. A few pasty hands wandered over her oiled skin, along the edges of a scrap of fabric that couldn’t be considered a skirt by even the loosest of folk. She sighs and breathes out more smoke, into the face of a painted face that smirks down at her, suggestively thrusting his hips into her shoulder blades.

“Your shift is fin-ally over. I’ll take over and fin-fish.” Damara tilted her head up, rising her hips up into the face of a man that could have passed for an overzealous teenager. Meenah looked down at her, dressed in a sea shell bra and fish nets strategically placed over her hips. Damara wordlessly stood and straightened her clothes, concealing the nipple that had been pulled out and righting the angle of her skirt. Meenah took her place, wide legged and draping herself lazily along their laps. The Mongolian easily slipped into the back, changing out of her tacky school girl costume and untying her hair. She pulled wads of cash out of her underwear and socks, even a few bills out of her bun. Sighing, she tidied the wads up and put them into her wallet.

“How much did you make tonight?” a tinier version of Damara peeked her head out of a lounge-like room, smiling and wrapping her arms around her mother’s thighs. “Silly child,” Damara clucked, running a hand through the young girl’s dark hair. “I made a few hundred. I was thinking we could go to McDonald’s tonight, and you would get the playground to yourself.” Aradia’s face lit up like a Christmas tree, her smiling wrinkling up her round cheekbones. Damara wriggled out of the girl’s death grip and changed into her maroon frock, tying her hair back up and grabbing her purse. Aradia kept darting from her mother’s arms to the back door, and back again. Finally, the little girl and her mother walked to the McDonald’s down the road, across from the trolley station.

They passed by a drunk couple, both stumbling and fumbling with the paper bags in their hands. The girl smiled up to her eyes, the corners of her mouth hiding behind her oversized glasses. She kept planting messy kisses on the side of her boyfriend’s face, coming away with black and white makeup smearing her mouth. He kept wiping the slobber off that side of his face, ruining the face paint he had put on. “Terezi,” he moaned, pushing her face away. She snickered and licked his head, making a face at the taste of sweat on his hand. “I bet you look like a dork now!” she proudly shouted, waving her arms out dramatically. Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she giggled, fumbling to pull it out. Terezi flipped it open and shouted and happy hello. She paused for a second, heavily breathing past her shit eating grin. Then she giggled and closed the phone. “Gam! Karkles called and he wants me back tomorrow!”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoyed it, and I will not object to criticism, as this is my first time writing in a very long time. Thank you.


End file.
